Ed was sleeping in front of a cup of hot chocolate when we arrived. Rachael shook his shoulder and after saying hello and trying to start a conversation, we watched as he gingerly picked up his cup, took a sip and almost fell asleep once it has taken its place back on the table.
“How are you today?”
“Fine.”
“My name’s Deanne.”
“My name’s Millie.”
She was sitting in a wheelchair to the left of Ed. Her green eyes matched the dark tones of her sweater. The red lipstick she had applied before dinner had worked its way towards the middle of her lips, leaving the sides empty and pink. We chatted politely until she said,
“I’ve been reading a book, and I can’t wait to get back…”
We proceeded into a comfortable conversation about books.
“I think books are the best friends,” she said, “I’m writing my own story. There’s a lot there.”
“There’s a lot here too,” she continued nodding around the room, “lots of characters, stories and recipes.”
—–
Each room holds the potential for stories, as long as there are people in it. I used to think about walking into restaurants and taking everyone hostage.
“You may not leave until you tell me a story.”
I would record and transcribe the stories and then spend time juxtaposing them in different ways to see what patterns emerge. I would do this mostly to taste and smell the humanity, the humanness in the room. We spend so much time trying to have it together, to explain ourselves and our stories.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful to simply capture it in the same way a photographer captures a sunset or a whithered tree?
A glimpse. A blink.
Not to be explained, but sipped slowly like wine.
Art.